Dirty Money

Meany laughed, “That’s what we usually deal in. I’m gonna have to consult.”

“With Mr. Albert.”

Meany didn’t like the reminder. “That’s right, you had that phone call with Mr. Albert. He didn’t like it I let you get that close to him.”

“No choice.”

Meany nodded, “Well, Mr. Albert’s a sensible man,” he said, “He understood I didn’t have any other choice either.”

“Good. So he might like this.”

“He might, I might not mention the vendor’s you.”

“That’s all right with me.”

“I thought it would be,” Meany said. “So where do I get in touch with you?”

Parker looked at him. “I like the way you never give up,” he said. “When should I call you?”

Meany grinned. He was liking the conversation more than he’d thought he would. He said, “You got any time problems on your hands?”

“No. Where it is it’s safe for as long as we want.”

“Too bad. I’d rather you were under the gun.”

“I know that.”

Meany thought it over. “Call me Thursday,” he decided. “Three in the afternoon.”

“Good.”

Meany waved a hand over the sandwich remnants. “We don’t have to do lunch,” he said.

Massachusetts

Two and a half weeks after the big armored car robbery, and still neither the robbers nor the money had been found. No one would admit it, but law enforcement was no longer completely committed to the hunt. The track was cold, and so was the case.

On that Monday afternoon, troopers Louise Rawburton and Danny Oleski were nearing the end of an eight-a.m.- to-four-p.m. tour, when they passed St. Dympna United Reformed Church. Louise happened to be driving at that moment, Danny every once in a while insisting she take a turn, so she braked when she saw the church and said, “There it is again.”

Danny looked at it. “So?”

“I wanna see it,” she said, and pulled off the road to stop beside the church. “I’m sorry we didn’t go in there last time.”

“Well, we were kind of busy last time. And we had to report that broken window across the road.”

“Well, we’re not busy now. Come on, Danny.”

So Danny shrugged and they both got out of their cruiser, adjusted their belts, and went up to the broken side door. It was early twilight here at this time of year, still plenty of light, but it would be dark inside the church, so they both carried their flashlights. They pulled the door open and stepped in, their light beams shining across the rows of pews and, near the doorway, three of the hymnal boxes squatted on the floor.

“Looks like,” Danny said, “they couldn’t fit them all.”

“Suppose we should take these? Donate them to somebody.”

“We can take them back to the barracks anyway,” Danny said.

“Good idea.”

Aiming the flashlight this way and that, he said, “It’s a real shame. This building’s still in good shape.”

Louise bent to one of the boxes and tugged. “These things are heavy,” she said.

“Well, yeah, they would be. Books.”

“Maybe we should just take some of them now,” she said. “Be sure there’s anybody wants them.”

“Just take one book,” Danny said. “They’re not going anywhere.”

Louise lifted the top off the box she’d been trying to lift, and they both looked in at the rows of greenbacks. The two flashlight beams trembled slightly, converging on all that money.

“Oh, my God,” Danny whispered.

“Oh, Danny,” Louise wailed, “Oh, no, Danny, it was them.”

“We talked with them,” Danny said. He was wide-eyed with shock. “We stood out there and we talked with them.”

“That goddamn woman gave me a hymnbook.”

Danny’s flashlight suddenly spun around, to fix on the basement door. “Why was he down there?” he asked. “What was he doing down there?”

Bitterly, Louise imitated the guy who’d come up out of the basement. “Oh, there’s nothing down there. Appliances all gone, everything gone.”

“Louise,” Danny said, “what was he doing down there?”

She had no answer. He walked over to that door and pulled it open and shone the flashlight down the stairs. Then he uselessly clicked the light switch a few times. Then his nose wrinkled and he said, “Jesus Christ. What’s that smell?”

* * *

Detective Gwen Reversa knew there were times she received an assignment only because she was a woman, and was thought therefore to be of a more sympathetic nature than the average male cop. She didn’t disagree with the assessment, but it irritated her anyway. She would have preferred gender-blind assignments, but when the woman’s touch was wanted, she knew she was always going to be that woman.

In her current case, for instance, she was clearly the only one in the office even considered to take the squeal. It was a wrongful death emerging out of a long-term case of simple slavery. The perps were a middle-aged Chinese couple named Cho, early beneficiaries of the Chinese economic miracle. The Chos designed toys, which were made in their mainland factories and sold worldwide. So successful were they that five years ago they’d bought an estate in rural Massachusetts, less than three hundred miles from either Boston or New York, and now split their time between China and the United States.

Their staff in the Massachusetts house was five Chinese nationals with no English, illegally brought in, mistreated, and paid nothing. The finale came when the Chos’ cook died of a burst appendix. The Chos, unwilling to risk exposure by seeking medical assistance, had preferred to believe the cook was malingering and could be cured with a few extra beatings. When they’d tried to bribe a local mortician to keep the death quiet, he instead went to the police.

So now Gwen was here in this stately New England country house filled with bright-colored Oriental decorations, sitting with a woman named Franny from Immigration and a translator named Koh Chi from a nearby community college. The four remaining staff/slaves, frightened out of their wits, were haltingly telling their stories in Mandarin, while Koh Chi translated and a tape recorder stood witness. The Chos themselves were at the moment in state holding cells, and would be questioned when their attorney arrived from Boston tomorrow.